


pancakes and memes

by lovelylogans



Series: meme boys [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Memes, Pancakes, just absolute tomfoolery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2020-12-17 18:27:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21058961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: virgil can't sleep and goes downstairs. what happens next will shock you.





	pancakes and memes

**Author's Note:**

> this was the original piece for [platonic week](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21058814), but i ended up writing something else. i decided to post this one too.

It was no secret that none of them had a reliable sleep schedule.

Logan probably tried the hardest out of all of them, and Patton could fall asleep and _stay_ asleep just about anywhere; Virgil has nearly stepped on Patton in the dead of night a number of times because Patton fell asleep watching something while sitting on the floor. 

But Virgil, because the debilitating anxiety that embodied who he was, of course, could only snatch sleep in fits and starts. Because why stop at just anxiety, right? Throw in a ton of other stuff too. Virgil’s bitter enough to make a lemon wince, sometimes.

It’s one of those nights where he just _knew_ he wouldn’t be able to sleep, so he figured he’d stave off the frustration that came from lying sleepless in his bed, and started up a Netflix marathon. 

At around 3 AM, his stomach started grumbling, and he sighed. Might as well not pass up on his appetite when it showed up (again. bitter. _horseradish._) and get something to eat.

On his phone, he didn’t look up when he flicked on the light, but the girlish, ridiculous shriek that sounded made him jump back, heart pounding.

“Virgil!” Roman squeaked, and Virgil blinked, looking him up and down.

He must have made some kind of face, because Roman straightened himself up, and sniffed. “They’re _pajamas,_ Finding Emo.”

“It seems more like I’m your fashion icon,” Virgil mused, leaning against a counter and surveying Roman, who was outfitted in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair untidy and ridiculous. Granted, the hoodie had a crown on it and declared him to be the prince, without a stitch in sight, but still. 

Roman sniffed again, turning to the fridge with a frown. “If you’re looking for snacks, just know that we got cleared out earlier in the day. Probably Patton.”

Virgil groaned, shouldering his way forwards to look in the fridge, which only held the bare essentials; eggs, butter, milk, syrup, and condiments.

“We don’t even have, like. Boxed macaroni?” Virgil groused.

Roman paused, and adopted his best “dad” stance. “Now, kiddo, you know that those things aren’t good for you to eat all the time!” he said, in an impressive impression. 

Virgil sighed, and opened up the freezer, which was similarly bereft. “Can’t you just, like. Conjure something?”

Roman hummed. “I was thinking of making something, actually.”

Virgil was silent. Roman glanced at him. “What?”

“No, it’s just, I think I know why I couldn’t sleep. It’s the self-preservation that knew it needed me to keep you from burning the kitchen down.”

Roman shoved at his shoulder, and said, “If you keep talking like that, you are getting _none_ of my flippin’ _sweet_ pancakes.”

“Patton, is that you,” Virgil grumbled, before sighing. “Yeah, okay, it’s not like we’ve got anything else, I guess.”

Virgil paused, and said, “Pancakes?”

“We’ve got the ingredients, I think,” Roman said. “Plus, I mean. Sugar’s just the best choice at 3 AM, isn’t it?”

Virgil eyed him, before he reached over and grabbed the eggs, because as much as he didn’t want to put actual effort into his food, the fear of leaving Roman in a quest for sugar, alone, in the dead of night, was much scarier.

After a brief break to look up a recipe on Roman’s phone, Roman situated himself with the bowl of mix, in front of the stove, as Virgil sat on a nearby counter, scrolling through his phone. Because if he couldn’t fuck with Roman, what was even the appeal of life anymore?

Roman paused, and narrowed his eyes at the sound of the [chipper tone.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5tVbVu9Mkg) “I know this song, don’t I?”

“Mm,” Virgil agreed, biting the insides of his cheeks. “Lazy Town. Seemed fitting, since, you know. Cooking cakes. _Pan_cakes.”

Roman turned back to the pancake, murmuring along in the way he did whenever he knew a song but not well enough to sing it word for word, and even chimed in on, “If you do the cooking by the book, then you’ll have a—”

“BREAK IT DOWN BITCH, LEMME SEE YOU BACK IT UP,” Virgil yelled along, and any embarrassment of trying to rap was absolutely worth it to see whatever soft wholesome light that was building in Roman’s eyes just crash, burning, to the ground.

Or, at least, that was what he expected.

He did _not_ expect for Roman to immediately drop and roll his body, smirking the whole way, before turning to shimmy, spatula twirling.

There were three things that Virgil could think of. One, that Roman was a better dancer than any of them combined. Two, Roman had _choreographed a dance_ to a _meme song. _Three, he had choreographed, practiced, and _remembered_ the choreography he made to a _meme song._

When the song kicked into the next one, Roman shuffled back over to the stove like nothing happened at all, poking cautiously at the pancake with his spatula.

“I think this one’s ready to flip?” Roman said. 

Virgil blinked a fair few times, and Roman carefully flipped it, frowning at it. 

“Bit pale,” he critiqued, then grinned at where Virgil was still gaping. “Guess it’s in good company.”

“Fuck off,” Virgil said, but it was ruined by the slight tone of wonderment in his voice, then, “You _choreographed_ Lil Jon?”

Roman tsked. “Oh, Robbie Rotten,” he said, “I choreograph _everything._ Not quite as well as that one all the time, granted, but what else do you think I do when Thomas gets a song stuck in his head?”

“Was that an actual fucking Lazy Town reference,” Virgil said. “You watched enough Lazy Town to know the dude’s _name?”_

“My choreography to _We Are Number One_ is admittedly lacking, but it is an ongoing project, I will have you know,” Roman said, carefully distributing the pancake onto a plate and spooning out another puddle of batter.

Virgil was about to ask, when the [next video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o0u4M6vppCI) on the playlist loaded, and Roman narrowed his eyes at it.

“Did you just… put a meme playlist on?”

“What? No,” Virgil scoffed. “I just wanted to fuck with you a little with the whole Cooking by the Book thing.”

“This is a fantastic video, though,” Roman said, and sang, “_My God, there’s blood everywhere!”_

“Just your amount of drama, yeah,” Virgil said, squinting, and, yep, it was the version of the song he thought it was. 

“_Lurking in the shadows—_hey, Virgil, I didn’t know you were in this song.”

Virgil leaned over so he could kick Roman, who snickered, jolting out of the way just in time. 

Roman sang along, loud and with all the dramatic vibrato the song deserved, and Virgil even muttered along with the “_quiet, quiet,”_ rolling his eyes when Roman brightened up at it.

“What, the video’s a masterpiece,” Virgil grumbled.

“It’s all right, Shia, there’s a certain amount of secrecy that comes with making pancakes together at three in the morning. I won’t tell the others you sang if you don’t tell them about, well.” Roman gestured vaguely to his appearance.

“You copycatting me? Fine,” Virgil said, and added, “Don’t expect me to sing, though.”

“Mhm,” Roman said, and joined in with the next line as Virgil absentmindedly bounced his leg to the beat.

They even shouted, “_WAIT! HE ISN’T DEAD! SHIA SURPRISE!_” together, as Roman belted, “_THERE’S A GUN TO YOUR HEAD, AND DEATH IN HIS EYES!”_ and Virgil covered his snort of laugh with his hand.

“Can you imagine putting together a video with this level of production value?” Virgil asked, after the song wound down. 

“The ultimate goal,” Roman said solemnly. “To make a video as extra as that.”

Virgil had a temporary, vivid mental picture of Patton attempting to do aerial aerobics and falling, Logan wearing one of the masks, and Roman dramatically serenading Shia LaBeouf.

The next video loaded before Virgil had to disclose this horrible vision of the future. 

It turned out to be a vine compilation, and Roman flipped three pancakes onto the plate as they pulled faces and did their best impressions at each other (”what the FUCK is up, Kyle?!” Virgil demanded to Roman’s hysteric giggles) and it was actually… _fun._

Roman was easily the most varied of Virgil’s relationships with the others, the pair of them still a little unsettled and cautious around each other, still treading on occasional soft spots and going at each other too much. Of course, the growing suspicion of _I’ll fuck this up_ was growing in Virgil’s head, but he ignored it, too busy snickering at Roman declaring, “Look at all those _chickens,”_ gesturing expansively with the spatula.

The [next video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J1c2KzJbcGA) loaded, and Virgil said, “Oh, _wow,_ I can’t believe I forgot about this.”

Roman’s lips twitched. “It is, ah. A rather unique aesthetic, isn’t it?”

“It’s a song about pants, Roman.” Virgil paused, and glanced at Roman. “Actually, you wouldn’t be entirely out of place in that video.”

Roman gasped at Virgil, and said, “Just for that, I’m burning your pancakes.”

“You’re making the last one and you have no idea of which one is going to us,” Virgil smirked, propping his elbow on his knee, settling his chin on his hand. “You wouldn’t risk a one in six chance of burnt pancake, would you?”

Virgil paused, and looked at Roman, eyes narrowed. Roman turned his attention to the skillet.

“You… do you have choreography for this one?” Virgil asked, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing at him.

Roman paused, and managed to flip the pancake. “All right,” he said. “I’ll show you the choreography. _If_ you sing along.”

“What?” Virgil scoffed. “No way.”

“We’re under oaths of secrecy,” Roman said, and sang out, “_Is that an angel baby, no, that’s his dance moves!_”

Except it wasn’t Roman’s usual professional singing. It was _awful._ It was the shrieking singing he did whenever someone needed to laugh, and Virgil looked away, before hopping down from the counter, jabbing his finger into Roman’s face.

“_No telling.”_

_“_Never_,”_ Roman called back, grinning, and sang, “_Watch out for my body rolls, watch out for my body rolls!”_

Virgil rolled his eyes, and sang. For him, it was more following along with Roman, awkwardly bobbing, as Roman went all-out, dramatic, pulling faces and shimmying and jumping, wild and crazed with it. It was honestly dancing that would not have looked out of place on Patton, or on any particularly horrible dancing parental figure. 

And it was the funniest thing Virgil had seen that week.

Virgil, snorting, danced along, and joined in at full volume, “_I’M A DANCE FLOOR TIGER-LADY, PUMPIN’ EVERYTHING SHE HAS, TOUCHIN’ EVERY SINGLE LAD—”_

Roman fell over himself, cackling, but jumped along with Virgil anyways, acting like he was a kid, head tossing and arms waving frenetically, whereas Virgil was stuck nodding along, singing in the same awful, horrible way Roman was.

It was an interesting kind of catharsis—releasing some of the pent-up nervous energy Virgil had with him, always, in a way that felt wild and free and happy. Virgil was all too aware that he probably sounded ridiculous, but it was okay, because Roman absolutely did too, and he was too busy singing about _tight pants _to really care about how he looked.

Almost too soon, the song was over, and Roman snorted, handed over the plate of pancakes.

“Sugar can only help fuel this session of _song_,” he said, solemn, and Virgil rolled his eyes, but he was grinning too hard to pretend like he meant it meanly.


End file.
